Dreams in War Time (2023)
mezzo-soprano, piano
c. 15 minutes 30 seconds
text by Amy Lowell
Composed for and dedicated to mezzo-soprano Sarah Best
Written just after the end of World War I, Amy Lowell’s “Dreams in War Time” from Pictures of the Floating World (1919) depicts seven images that are as beautiful as they are haunting. Each dream is exquisitely detailed as Lowell sets the scene—wandering through an unlit house, carefully digging a grave, painting a bush to look like it is on fire, crafting a gold and white kite—and gradually exposes the eeriness of each situation—the narrator pricks her hand in the darkened rooms of the house, she reveals that the grave is for herself, her neighbors burn down the painted bushes, her kite is destroyed in a strike of lightning.
My own Dreams in War Time (2023) sets four of Lowell’s dreams to music. The first movement, “thorn,” is a moody dirge that evokes the narrator’s wandering throughout the many rooms of the house; it ends with an anguished vocalise as the narrator cries out in pain from pricking her hand. The second movement, “pebble,” takes a somewhat bluegrass-y spin on the dream of digging a grave; as the narrator discovers her own face waiting to be buried, she mimics a clock counting down the seconds she has remaining. The third movement, “ash,” begins as a manic burst of energy as the narrator falsely warns of a fire, but the music turns sickly as her neighbors take over.
In the final movement, “string,” the piano begins with a lyrical string of notes. Despite the more turbulent middle section, the movement begins and ends simply as the narrator tells her story. The final image of the work depicts the narrator walking in the drowning rain, slowly winding up the string to her ruined kite. This image can be seen as a moment of dejection or a moment of determination. I choose to see the latter: even after the beauty the narrator has created has been destroyed, she collects the remaining pieces and persists onward.
Text
[Movement numbers and titles are by the composer]
i. thorn [c. 4 minutes]
I wandered through a house of many rooms.
It grew darker and darker,
Until, at last, I could only find my way
By passing my fingers along the wall.
Suddenly my hand shot through an open window,
And the thorn of a rose I could not see
Pricked it so sharply
That I cried aloud.
ii. pebble [c. 3 minutes]
I dug a grave under an oak-tree.
With infinite care, I stamped my spade
Into the heavy grass.
The sod sucked it,
And I drew it out with effort,
Watching the steel run liquid in the moonlight
As it came clear.
I stooped, and dug, and never turned,
For behind me,
On the dried leaves,
My own face lay like a white pebble,
Waiting.
iii. ash [c. 3 minutes 30 seconds]
I painted the leaves of bushes red
And shouted: “Fire! Fire!”
But the neighbors only laughed.
“We cannot warm our hands at them,” they said.
Then they cut down my bushes,
And made a bonfire,
And danced about it.
But I covered my face and wept,
For ashes are not beautiful
Even in the dawn.
iv. string [c. 5 minutes]
I had made a kite,
On it I had pasted golden stars
And white torches,
And the tail was spotted scarlet like a tiger-lily,
And very long.
I flew my kite,
And my soul was contented
Watching it flash against the concave of the sky.
My friends pointed at the clouds;
They begged me to take in my kite.
But I was happy
Seeing the mirror shock of it
Against the black clouds.
Then the lightning came
And struck the kite.
It puffed—blazed—fell.
But still I walked on,
In the drowning rain,
Slowly winding up the string.
c. 15 minutes 30 seconds
text by Amy Lowell
Composed for and dedicated to mezzo-soprano Sarah Best
Written just after the end of World War I, Amy Lowell’s “Dreams in War Time” from Pictures of the Floating World (1919) depicts seven images that are as beautiful as they are haunting. Each dream is exquisitely detailed as Lowell sets the scene—wandering through an unlit house, carefully digging a grave, painting a bush to look like it is on fire, crafting a gold and white kite—and gradually exposes the eeriness of each situation—the narrator pricks her hand in the darkened rooms of the house, she reveals that the grave is for herself, her neighbors burn down the painted bushes, her kite is destroyed in a strike of lightning.
My own Dreams in War Time (2023) sets four of Lowell’s dreams to music. The first movement, “thorn,” is a moody dirge that evokes the narrator’s wandering throughout the many rooms of the house; it ends with an anguished vocalise as the narrator cries out in pain from pricking her hand. The second movement, “pebble,” takes a somewhat bluegrass-y spin on the dream of digging a grave; as the narrator discovers her own face waiting to be buried, she mimics a clock counting down the seconds she has remaining. The third movement, “ash,” begins as a manic burst of energy as the narrator falsely warns of a fire, but the music turns sickly as her neighbors take over.
In the final movement, “string,” the piano begins with a lyrical string of notes. Despite the more turbulent middle section, the movement begins and ends simply as the narrator tells her story. The final image of the work depicts the narrator walking in the drowning rain, slowly winding up the string to her ruined kite. This image can be seen as a moment of dejection or a moment of determination. I choose to see the latter: even after the beauty the narrator has created has been destroyed, she collects the remaining pieces and persists onward.
Text
[Movement numbers and titles are by the composer]
i. thorn [c. 4 minutes]
I wandered through a house of many rooms.
It grew darker and darker,
Until, at last, I could only find my way
By passing my fingers along the wall.
Suddenly my hand shot through an open window,
And the thorn of a rose I could not see
Pricked it so sharply
That I cried aloud.
ii. pebble [c. 3 minutes]
I dug a grave under an oak-tree.
With infinite care, I stamped my spade
Into the heavy grass.
The sod sucked it,
And I drew it out with effort,
Watching the steel run liquid in the moonlight
As it came clear.
I stooped, and dug, and never turned,
For behind me,
On the dried leaves,
My own face lay like a white pebble,
Waiting.
iii. ash [c. 3 minutes 30 seconds]
I painted the leaves of bushes red
And shouted: “Fire! Fire!”
But the neighbors only laughed.
“We cannot warm our hands at them,” they said.
Then they cut down my bushes,
And made a bonfire,
And danced about it.
But I covered my face and wept,
For ashes are not beautiful
Even in the dawn.
iv. string [c. 5 minutes]
I had made a kite,
On it I had pasted golden stars
And white torches,
And the tail was spotted scarlet like a tiger-lily,
And very long.
I flew my kite,
And my soul was contented
Watching it flash against the concave of the sky.
My friends pointed at the clouds;
They begged me to take in my kite.
But I was happy
Seeing the mirror shock of it
Against the black clouds.
Then the lightning came
And struck the kite.
It puffed—blazed—fell.
But still I walked on,
In the drowning rain,
Slowly winding up the string.